


Gary Knows; Or, Gary the Fool in Liverpool

by kloppinthekop



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, Gratuitous use of parentheses, Liverpool, Liverpool F.C., M/M, Manchester United, TWO IDIOTS, banter and dumb lads and such, minor fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 12:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18851260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kloppinthekop/pseuds/kloppinthekop
Summary: "Liverpool’s lost the league, and Gary’s lost his damn mind."In which the 2 in Gary Neville’s Twitter handle (@GNev2) stands for "2 cruel."Or, the fic in which “Leave my @GNev2 alone!” threatens to turn into “Leave me alone, @GNev2!” wherein Gary shows up to Liverpool to wait around for a pint with Carra, gets under his skin, and then... they do other things that involve skin, if ya get what I mean. 😉





	Gary Knows; Or, Gary the Fool in Liverpool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheBlackWook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackWook/gifts).



> Inspired the following prompt, though it doesn’t happen 100% the way OP requested (I can only apologize; something came over me and I just started typing and didn’t stop):
>
>> " **[Carraville - Minor angst, Comfort and Fluff:](https://footballkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/887.html?thread=123767#cmt123767)** I'm just a simple shipper and I just basically crave a fic in which Gary brags about Liverpool finishing second and Jamie is not exactly in the mood and just tells Gary to f*ck off and other great things like that, obviously upset about not winning the league despite the little chance there was. And then just Gary realising he's been an utter brat and didn't realise how much Carra believed (spoiler : he always believes), or how he's been actually quite soft in his comments on United, and that he loves him, that Scouse. So he goes to Jamie's to make things right and then I want kisses and cuddles. Fuck greatly appreciated but optional, any rating will do. Thank you!"
> 
> **Disclaimer:** This is fiction and did not happen. (Please don’t tell Carra and Neville about it. They might be disappointed.) IT’S ALL FABRICATED stop yelling at me, I’m already distraught. 

 

  
[link to tweet](https://twitter.com/GNev2/status/1127615053031780354)

 

Gary knows he shouldn’t, but he just can’t resist another jab.

Carra hasn’t responded to his Twitter post. Which is fair enough, he supposes, though he knows Carra’s been on his phone in the aftermath. Probably texting Stevie, or Redknapp, or their Liverpool TV group, as he likes to call it. Or maybe just stalking around the halls of Anfield sulking, like the giant manbaby he is.

In any case, Gary _knows_ he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it.

Never can, ‘round Jamie Carragher.

So yeah, Carra hasn’t responded to Gary’s Twitter post yet, but it’s all in jest, and if Gary were really being honest with himself (which he thinks he always but hardly ever is when it comes to Carragher) he would realize that he’s acting like a besotted idiot of a schoolboy, tugging at his crush’s pigtails. Kickin’ them in the shins. Pokin’ fun at their beloved (his hated) team. It’s all in good fun.

(Except it really isn’t, when it comes to Carragher.)

They’ve arranged over FaceTime to meet up for a pint that night in Liverpool. (Gary’s not happy about that, but it _is_ closer to home than London, and there’s not much in it for Carra to come to Brighton or Bolton.) Gary had teased Carra hours before they went on air, commentating their respective matches. “You’re not gonna flake out on me now then, are ye, when Liverpool loses?”

“Liverpool’s not gonna lose, mate.”

“Maybe not the game, but they’ve bottled the league.”

Carragher had only scowled, trying to play it off like he was nonchalant about the whole thing but… Gary could see the slight tension in his movements when he went to flip him the two-fingered salute, phone wobbling as he brought it back up to his face. Still. He knows Carra won’t say no to a pint. He’ll need it.

“‘s tradition, right? Match day, last match of the season for us. Go on, then.”

Jamie sighed. “Yeah alrigh’ we’ll do a pint. But you’re buying first-round. And I’ll probably already be pissed. They invited me out to BOSS Night, and the lads…” Carra continued talking, while Gary stared at the lighter grey hairs above Carra’s ears. They’re both getting old, he was thinking. (He’s thinking, secretly, the greys look nice. The variant shades of grey atop Carra’s temple, the grey of his well-fitted suit jacket… The greys do look nice, makes him look as close to distinguished as he’ll ever get.)

(And even _more_ secretly, he’s thinking Carra’s always looked… if not nice, well. Hmm.)

“Yeah yeah, sure, we’ll get you properly sloshed so you’ll forget bein’ distraught.” Gary chuckled, but then lowered his voice, less boisterous. “But if you can’t, just send me a message yeah? It’s a bit of a drive and I don’t want your lot beatin’ me up. I’ll look a right tosser sittin’ there alone among the Scousers.” 

“Too late, you’re always a tosser,” Carra instantly retorted. “Besides, you’re the one more likely to ditch, when the Mancs lose. Again.” He had run a hand down the back of his neck, slightly distracted. To anyone else it wouldn’t have appeared too out of the ordinary, but Gary can tell it was done out of nerves. He just knew.

So. He _should_ know better, but Carra always brings out the worst in him.

He’s lying to himself when he denies the sudden dryness in his mouth, the heaviness in his chest, the sudden intake of breath when Carra finally slumps down—whole body sinking into—the seat beside Gary.

“Give me a second before you start goin’ in, ok?”

He is, as predicted, already plastered. Gary’s surprised he hasn’t just gone home to Crosby after the day and night he’s had, but Gary’s taking off his cap (a necessary disguise in Merseyside), and Carra’s definitely come out to see him. He could’ve stuck it out with his Scouse mob, but he’s here in the dingy pub just to have a pint with him. Just to be here with him.

So Gary can’t fathom why, after Carra’s just asked him to give him a second to breathe, _why_ he has to go and open his great big gobby mouth. Maybe it’s denial, maybe it’s sheer idiocy, maybe Gary _knows_ , but he just can’t stop the words tumbling out of his mouth.

“Second, like what Liverpool placed this season?”

As soon as the words come out of him he feels a little bad, but, this is just how they are. It’s just banter, right? They do this on the daily, the two of them slinging barbs out like the proud Mancunian and dirty Scouser they are. (And truthfully, those barbs no longer actually sting.) Carra would’ve already seen his tweet, would’ve seen that Gary was poking fun with the picture.

It’s just the way of the world, the way they are. They’re cruel to each other because they don’t know how to be kind.

In fact, that’s not true either. They’re cruel only to hide the kindness, the softness belying each exchange. And yeah, they banter, they wind each other up, but it all points to something else, just under the surface. The friendship, true friendship, that has sprung up between them.

(And again, if Gary would stop suppressing the truth and allow himself to think about his true feelings toward Jamie, he’d know that it was just the way that they knew how to express themselves. The way that they knew, idiots that they were, how to love one another.)

(True friendship? Yes. But that’s not the full truth either.)

Gary knows, and he thinks Carra knows too. Knows that he doesn’t mean to be cruel, that he doesn’t mean it at all.

Right?

Yeah, not so much.

Not tonight.

“Fuck off, Neville.” Jamie’s face looks tired before it shutters closed, and Gary knows then that, this time, he has indeed gone too far. He’d expected a laugh, like usual, even if tight-lipped. He’d expected a quick jab back; after all, Carra boxes ‘most days,’ is usually well-equipped for anything Gary throws his way. He expects the usual, but, well, he supposes there’s nothing quite usual about tonight. (Or about the two of them.)

“Carra-”

Jamie turns in his seat, his body unconsciously angled away from Gary’s outstretched fingers. The elation he’s felt about City winning (or really, Liverpool losing) suddenly feels a bit hollow. Carra seems to be finding solace in staring at a spot on the pub floor. Even with his face turned down and away from Gary, he can feel the scowl, directed both away and toward him.

“You’re a right wanker, ye know that?” It’s almost as if Carra is rallying for the banter, but Gary can tell that he actually means it, even if only just a little bit, because deep down he knows he’s hurt Carra—even if Carra thinks he can’t get hurt anymore—and he’s trying to hurt him back the only way they know how. Sharp words. An insult through barely-suppressed laughter. Usually a joke, but hiding something underneath. Not quite hatred anymore, mind you, but… hiding something. It’s just a little bit painful, and he’s not even sure Carra means to be so successful in the attempt but…

He knows that he deserves it, really.

Gary sees his arm still reaching out for Carra’s, almost like the limb doesn’t belong to him. Maybe I should have let you sit here alone like the tosser that you are, he hears him say, and he feels it: the tightly-bundled anger that comes from disappointment. “Could’ve stayed out with the fans,” Gary continues to hear, but the sound is almost muffled as his own brain has a go at him too. Disappointment at the results, disappointment at Gary’s words. Disappointment in Gary.

Gary knows, and doesn’t blame him.

He’s come all the way to Merseyside—Liverpool—for him, only to fuck it up. He’s come all the way from Brighton, the Amex, to sit in a pub alone, waiting for Jamie. Drove here like a fool on a mission, and like a fool he’s there—but not really _there_ —for Carra, all because of his big stupid mouth.

Carra was there for him through Valencia, was there for him through all the press nonsense. Even though Gary had been miles away—both physically and in spirit—Carragher had stuck up for him. In a way, stuck _with_ him, even they hadn’t talked much in those days.

He had accepted Gary back so easily, when he had finally returned to Sky, and while they did banter there was something else there. Acceptance, yes, but something else too. Neither would admit it, of course, but that was just the way they were.

Gary is disappointed, because he knows Carra has never been a disappointment to him. And he knows this mood won’t last forever, but even still he feels bad. He, of all people, should have understood.

He could have, should have treated Carra with more care; not because he was fragile, or weak—by now Gary _knew_ he wasn’t—but because he deserved kindness when it really mattered. And he knew that this, the league, really mattered. And he knew that he should have kept his big gob shut.

He knew all that. He knew all that, and still he couldn’t resist being a cunt. And not minutes after Jamie’s having arrived, even when Gary knew that the last place he wanted to be was with a bloody Manc.

Even if that bloody Manc was a friend.

Even if Carra deserves better than this bloody Manc… as a friend. (Or as anything more.)

The touch is gentle when his hand finally lands on Carragher’s arm, and stays there. The flesh is warm beneath, and as Gary’s thumb brushes a stroke of remorse into Carra’s skin it lands on his pulse point.

“Carra… James…” Gary’s tone is not soft, but not without kindness either. He almost wishes Carra would continue calling him a cunt, but he’s fallen quiet. The noise of other patrons seem to swell around them, amplifying the silence between them.

Bracing himself, Gary leans into Carra’s tense form, says quietly but firmly: “You know I’m not sorry about the results-” and Carra huffs, pulling away, but Gary won’t let him go. “You know that already, but I… I _am_ sorry to see you disappointed.”

Carra continues to look in the other direction, but the tendons near his bicep unclench ever so slightly, becoming almost imperceptively less tensed. Almost, but, of course Gary takes notice.

Always does.

Carragher hasn’t moved, not more than that, but Gary can feel that the touch has lingered a little too long for comfort in this moment. He presses into the flesh ever so slightly, seeking mostly to reassure himself, before releasing his grip on Carra’s lower arm.

He’s still not looking at him, but Carragher finally shifts, moving to grab the glass in front of him. As he gulps down the beer that has been waiting there—like Gary, awaiting his arrival—Carra’s brows furrow, and he closes his eyes while his head tilts back.

Trying to fight back the emotions. The disappointment. And, Gary also knows this, knows Carragher’s love for his team—not just his former club, because he knows Liverpool means more than that to Jamie—but this… He supposes that he has forgotten, in the wake of United’s disastrous season, how much harder it is to accept coming so close and still losing, as opposed to crashing out spectacularly. Especially when you’ve won the match, in your beloved hometown, and still’ve lost the war.

He knows what it’s like to face defeat, and he feels even worse now for his comments. “I’m a shithead, go on, say it.” Gary tries to laugh, and Jamie finally—finally—looks at him.

“Don’t,” he says.

And he doesn’t have to explain.

Gary knows.

 

🙐🙑🙖

 

They do stay out late that night, but not that late considering the results of the day; in fact, they leave after Jamie finishes his first pint (but how many pints really did he have before?), Gary downing his second. They walk around a bit, thankful for the darkness (and Gary’s makeshift disguise) that hides their faces from the people milling about around them. It’s like they’re in their own personal bubble, a world made up of just the two of them.

Conversation is still more stilted than usual, but Gary supposes that’s only natural. He even lets Carra needle him about Manchester United’s loss to Cardiff—“Bloody Cardiff, mate!”—without too much rebuttal. If he’s honest (and after two pints he’s only just starting to be more honest about other things), it’s not as fun ranting about yet another loss when he knows the disappointment layered underneath Carra’s every word, lurking under the surface.

He feels bad, he really does, but it still takes him by surprise when he hears himself ask Carra if he can crash at his. He isn’t even looking at Jamie when he says it, isn’t looking at him when he replies, isn’t looking at him until they crawl out of their seats and trudge outside, evening air just beginning to become brisk. It’s not that late, after all.

Gary doesn’t even know why Carra agrees. He’s not always good company on the best of days, and today his company from the start has seemed downright hateful.

Maybe Jamie’s secretly a masochist. (With all the tackles he’s made, he can take a lot of pain?) Maybe he’s just too nice (Nice? To a Manc? Yeah right.) to refuse. Maybe Carra is just that desperate to take his mind of things.

(Or maybe he’s really, actually, glad to have Gary with him, even after what he’s said.)

Whatever the reason, Gary is a bit perplexed, but also grateful that Carra answers in the affirmative, still at his side as they walk to the street-corner. They’re quiet then in the cab ride to Carragher’s place, and Gary can’t help but think about how his silence seems less hostile than before. Seems to have mutated into something else, something more... bittersweet, maybe. Contemplative, sure.

Their bodies don’t touch in the car, but Gary is all too aware of Carra’s figure, silhouetted by streetlights. His posture doesn’t give much away, but there’s a shadow between his brows that contrasts with the languid way his hands rest against his knees. Occasionally he hears a ping from Carragher’s phone, which the other man ignores.

Right. Carra’s with him, instead of his mates. (Gary, you _are_ his mate.)

(Gary, you are his.)

(He doesn’t think these things, not yet.)

It seems that they reach Carra’s place too soon, a sense of quiet blanketing them as they are driven along the winding road that leads to his home. Gary is now grateful for the upturned collar of his warm pullover as they walk from the parked car. He can hear Carra breathing beside him, and as they draw closer together at his doorstep, he feels a shiver run down his spine that has nothing to do with the crisp night air. Again his hand seems to act of its own accord, placing itself at Carra’s lower back to usher him inside, crossing under the eaves until they are both ensconced in the warm vanilla smell that Gary secretly associates with a sense of home (even though this isn’t, in fact, his own house).

(It’s lost on him in this moment that he associates the smell with home because it’s how Carra smells. That… Jamie is home.)

(It doesn’t dawn on him then, but maybe it will in the weeks and months to come.)

He turns to face the other man. “I’m really sorry about earlier, Jamie, I just didn’t think-“

“Like usual, you mean.”

Gary just stares. Carra looks even more exhausted under the low lighting of the foyer, and Gary desperately wants to touch him. To caress his cheek… To just put aside their rivalry and revel in… whatever it is that they share.

(It’s not just the beer talking, Gary knows. The buzz—or at least, the alcoholic buzz—has long worn off, as they walked around Liverpool, somehow unnoticed. Maybe, just maybe, Gary might be starting to be honest with himself about Carragher.)

“I know, Gaz. I know.”

He gives in. He reaches out for Carra’s wrist, turning his hand over in his own. He can feel Jamie’s sharp intake of breath through their point of connection, and he runs this thumb along the vein leading to his pulse point, more deliberately than he did at the pub.

He doesn’t dare look Carra in the face. Not yet.

Carra breathes out. “I know.” Sighs. “It still hurts, but…” Their hands move, and Gary can’t tell if it’s him or Carra—the two of them, perhaps—that leads their joined hands to his own face, to the stubble there on his lower left jaw. “I know youse… I know you didn’t mean to be awful. It’s just… I didn’t even realize how much I believed—really, truly believed—until it was over. Until you said it.”

Gary chances a glance, and what he sees takes his breath away. Carra isn’t looking at him, per se, but rather stares at their overlapping hands cupped around the curve of Gary’s jaw. “Didn’t even know I’d be that upset. I jus’… couldn’t help it.” He knows his friend is hurting, that he needs the comfort, but it isn’t just that. There’s something else there, in his intent gaze.

Slowly, so slowly, his eyes slide over to Gary’s own. “I always believe.”

I always believe, he says, and Gary’s not even sure what they’re talking about anymore. Carra’s hand moves away from his cheek but as it does, it curls around Gary’s, a loosely-held fist. Deliberately, achingly, their still-joined hands travel downwards toward quivering lips, and Carra presses his knuckles—theirs, Gary’s just underneath—up against Gary’s mouth. It is almost that they make the decision together, for Gary to kiss those fingers, for Carra to worship those lips with his touch.

It’s an inexorable slide, and without their knowing, their bodies seek each other out, dipping into each others’ straight lines and curves and hard bodies that have gone slightly soft in the years after Liverpool and Manchester, and rivalries, not forgotten, but perhaps slightly mellowed. (At least, when it comes to the two of them.) This, _this_ , is the way of the world, the way that they are. Scouser and Manc. Neville and Carragher. Carra and Gaz.

Gary and Jamie.

They’re not meeting on neutral ground, not by a long stretch. Gary knows that, despite his nasty brag from earlier, it means something to Carra that he’s come here, to Liverpool, for him. That that decision, though perhaps not entirely consciously made, is not an empty gesture, not without meaning. Gary knows that Carra knows, ironically or not, _this means more._

As their bodies sink into the couch below them, they curl into something more urgent, befitting of the men that they are. It’s not quite the comfort Jamie deserves (though tomorrow morning Gary will press him into the bed and whisper his name like praise into the hollow between collarbone and neck, before nuzzling into him like an overgrown cat), the two of them having waited too long for this, without even knowing that they had waited. Gary didn’t know he came to Liverpool for this, for all of this wide expanse of firm, tactile flesh beneath him, but he is glad he did.

For this, this love that was big enough for the both of them, big enough to encompass two cities, two clubs. Two hearts.

Two hearts, beating against each other’s heaving chests, just two hearts that bled red. Two different reds, but the same passion. Gary knows the hurt in Jamie’s heart that night. He can’t replace it with something else, can’t begrudge Carra for his belief, not when he would do and feel the same if it were him in that place. But he can be with him, he can—finally—be honest about the two of them, he can be this, for this beautiful, infuriating, passionate man.

Jamie groans, and Gary knows. (He knows it tonight, he’ll know it tomorrow, he’ll know it the day after when he’s watching Jamie intently slagging off the “Citeh” wankers for being, well, right wankers, know it in his heart and body when he drags Jamie into bed—doesn’t matter whose bed—night after night when they can’t bear to be apart any longer… He knows, alright.)

And he knows, well, right. I’m fucked.

Because he is now well and truly being honest with himself, and he thinks—he knows—that he loves him.

He doesn’t need to tell him, just yet. He doesn’t want to ruin it with words; after all, ruining it with words is what got him in trouble earlier that night. (Although, even those needling words did lead him here. Everything they did and said had led them here this ultimate moment that would stretch forward into many more moments of them, together.)

His body feels alive, as if it is spiraling, and he kisses into Carra more deeply, more insistently. Although the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes yet (it won’t until the morning after, after a restless night of the two of them curled tightly into each other in a large sea of mattress and pillows), Carra huffs out a laugh, tugging at Gary’s shirt.

After that, it’s almost ridiculous how easy it is, to take off each other’s clothing, dragging fabric up and over grinning faces and supple flesh. It’s slow and fast at the same time, befitting of who they are: a union of opposites, a clash of like-minded passions coming together, finally.

It’s forever and almost no time at all before they are fully naked, panting into each other’s open mouths. Hands move downward, deft and strong hands, making the same journey down different bodies. Gary arches into Carra’s grasp, and feels the responding heat in his own fist, closed around Carra’s hard-

And oh, _oh god_ it feels like they have been headed here ever since they locked eyes, even if they didn’t know it, those many years ago in the studio. (Maybe even on the pitch, even longer ago.) Sweat makes their movements faster, heat everywhere, and Gary doesn’t quite know where to look, wanting to miss nothing. Wanting to see everything, wanting everything about Jamie. Knowing, now, that Jamie feels this too, feels the same way.

It’s such a relief, such a rush, and his fingers dig into the arch of Jamie’s back, back down to his magnificent arse, dipping lower, wrenching out a sob that Gary feels rather than hears near the nape of his neck. His other hand slows before building up speed again, and they are bringing each other closer to the brink of ecstasy. Gary’s thumb presses against a different vein this time, pulsing, and they both moan, Jamie responding with a clever flick of the wrist. It’s hit a frenzied peak all too fast and all too slow, all at once, gasping into each other’s gaping mouths, beyond words.

For a moment, it’s quiet but for the sound of their flesh against each other, slick skin providing the soundtrack to their desired union, coming together as one, and it seems that there is a brief plateau where they both stare into each other’s eyes—two seconds, three, an eternity—before tipping over the edge, collapsing further down onto the firm surface of the couch and into each other’s bodies.

It’s all beyond words.

As they are coming down from the high, unable to let each other go, they slip into a more comfortable embrace. A hand runs down his flank, while another hand strokes damp tendrils of hair. He does not know whose hand is whose, whose body belongs to which one of them. Somewhere though, in the back of Gary’s mind, it registers that he is cuddling Jamie Carragher.   

He is, indeed, well and truly fucked.

(But secretly—perhaps not so secretly now—Gary knows that he loves it.)

Jamie nuzzles into his side, and Gary thinks about mumbling out something about the bedroom and a perfectly good bed, but he’s loathe to interrupt the moment.

Ah well, they can lay here for just a bit.

Liverpool’s lost the league, and Gary’s lost his damn mind.

Right. Well then.

(It’s all fucking wonderful.)

**Author's Note:**

> I must stress that I have done little to no research/fact-checking on this fic, having written it in one evening, and have probably messed up a countless number of details. I do know from creeping on Carra’s Twitter that he had, in fact, responded to Gary’s jibe in with a photoshop of Ole and crew in turn. (Also I’m pretty sure Carra was too smashed [after BOSS Night](https://youtu.be/umWbTwjkIMA?t=283) to go for another pint lol.) So. Artistic license for the purpose of angst and shenanigans? It’s all in good fun anyway, standard disclaimer applies, etc. etc.
> 
> P.S. It's my first Carraville fic! Clearly I've dealt with Liverpool losing the league by... writing in Gary's PoV. טּ_טּ
> 
> I’m on-and-off about Tumblr but you can come say hi there if you want! <http://dr-azumi-fujita.tumblr.com> (P.S. I made a graphic to accompany the fic [on tumblr](https://dr-azumi-fujita.tumblr.com/post/184926162716/gary-knows-or-gary-the-fool-in-liverpool-a))
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 


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